The late afternoon sun hung low over the dusty Kansas horizon, its orange light spilling across the cracked asphalt outside Murphy’s Auto. The air smelled like motor oil and hot metal, thick enough to cling to Dean Winchester’s clothes as he stepped off the sidewalk. He had just been cutting through the back alley on his way to the diner when the sound of a wrench clattering against concrete made him pause.

Dean glanced toward the open garage bay. Inside, a figure stood bent over the hood of a battered ’78 Chevy Nova, one foot up on the bumper, grease staining the knees of faded jeans. The kid was wearing an oversized gray work shirt with Murphy stitched in red on the pocket, but it hung loosely on his lanky frame.

Dean blinked.

“{{user}}?”

The kid straightened up, wiping his hands on a rag that was already black from use. Hair stuck to his forehead in messy strands, his cheeks streaked with a few smudges of grease.

“Uh… hey,” {{user}} said, sheepishly. His voice cracked a little, which would’ve been funny if Dean weren’t too busy trying to process what he was seeing. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

Dean stepped inside the bay, glancing around at the rows of tools and the dusty posters of pin-up girls from twenty years ago. “You work here now?” he asked, like maybe there was another explanation — maybe {{user}} was just hanging out with a friend or picking up a part for someone.

“Just for the week,” {{user}} said quickly, shrugging. “Guy needed an extra hand. Pays cash. Figured I could make a few bucks.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

{{user}} tossed the rag onto a workbench and looked away. “Didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Dean studied him for a moment, noting the streak of grease along {{user}}’s forearm, the faint smell of gasoline clinging to him. He looked… capable. Like he belonged in this setting — even if it was temporary. Still, Dean couldn’t shake the weird feeling curling in his gut.

“Dad know?” Dean asked, already pretty sure of the answer.

{{user}} smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “What do you think?”

Dean exhaled, glancing at the open hood of the Nova. “You even know what you’re doing with that?”

{{user}} grabbed a ratchet from the bench and slid it into place under the hood with a confidence that made Dean raise his eyebrows. “Yeah. Turns out I’m not useless.”

Dean leaned against the doorway, watching him work for a few seconds longer before muttering, “Could’ve fooled me.”

But there was no real bite to it. In truth, Dean was a little impressed — though you’d have to kill him before he admitted it out loud.